


Bite Marks

by vestigialstell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, M/M, Monster of the Week, Porn With Plot, Vampire!Jaskier, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22768636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialstell/pseuds/vestigialstell
Summary: Geralt is half-man, half-monster. Jaskier gets along with him just fine because, after all, Jaskier isn’t all human either.Vampire!Jaskier
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 724





	Bite Marks

**Author's Note:**

> not beta-read!

Jaskier slides onto the bench across from Geralt, his lute laid gently on the table. He has coins stuffed in his pocket and there is a flush across his cheeks. He’s happy the way he only gets after a good performance, soaking in the applause and appreciative gazes. Geralt watches him, steady as always.

Jaskier reaches out to steal Geralt’s ale. He moves slowly enough that Geralt can block his hand. Surprisingly, Geralt allows the theft and Jaskier pours thin ale down his parched throat. Jaskier makes a face. No wonder Geralt was so willing to part with his drink, it was barely more than water.

Usually, they stay in places with slightly better ale. With the two of them earning money, it’s easier to travel as they choose. Geralt makes more money in the backcountry, killing drowners and necrophages. Jaskier makes more money in the city, where people are more willing to part with their coin for the pleasure of his voice.

As a compromise they’ve been traveling from town to town, taking witcher contracts between. It’s the perfect pace for Jaskier, who tries to compose a little song for every contract.

There was a critique in the last town that he didn’t sing enough love songs, that he should try out something less gory for his subject matter. Jaskier has already written an epic about Geralt and Yennefer’s love, though he doesn’t sing it anymore. He tells himself it's because the song is too long for tavern entertainment.

“Hey!” someone shouts and Jaskier turns to see a drunk rise up from across the room. He’s pointing a finger straight at Jaskier. He has a sword at his hip, but he wears it awkwardly, the sheath bumping into the table behind him. “You’re that fancy bastard that knocked up Janice!”

That was highly unlikely. Jaskier hasn’t had sex in a very long time, too hung up on one person to indulge himself in the arms of another. He glances back at Geralt.

Geralt looks at Jaskier and smirks, leaving him to his fate. Bastard.

“I assure you, good sir, that I would never do something so crass,” Jaskier says, standing up and stepping out of their booth. Best to get this man far away from his lute. He’s had enough angry husbands come after him that he’s learned his lesson about leaving his lute within their range. “I am devoted solely to the art of music, I would never indulge in something as mundane as sex.”

That’s a fucking lie but Jaskier says it as smoothly as he would a truth.

“That’s a fucking lie,” the man rages. Damn. “She said it was a bard in fancy clothes singing songs about the Butcher of Blaviken.”

It was certainly a specific claim.

“The White Wolf,” Jaskier corrects. The man turns a rather interesting shade of plum and he grips the hilt of his sword.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, smacking his palm with his fist. He does remember trying to rhyme the name Janice and having a miserable time of it. And if he remembers the name then he probably... “Hmm, okay, I do remember Janice but I could not possibly be the father of her child.”

“You tumbled her!” the man says and it's a very familiar accusation. At least every fifth town they visit, someone accuses him or Geralt of bedding their sister or lover.

“I promise you I did not,” Jaskier says, his hands held up in front of him placatingly. He glances back at Geralt for help.

“What, are you some sort of cocksucker then?” the man says. “No wonder you can’t shut up about that witcher.”

The slitted pupils of Geralt’s eyes shrink. Jaskier grins at him. This is a pretty common accusation too but Geralt handles it worse than the usual charges. Jaskier tries not to think about the implications.

“Don’t look away when I’m talking to you,” the man snarls. He draws his sword and swings at Jaskier’s delicate face.

Time slows. Geralt and Jaskier stare at each other, silently determining who will deal with this latest nuisance. They already know the answer but Geralt likes to do a little sigh every time it happens.

He sighs and moves, which is excellent because Jaskier won't have to stand there and just take the punch.

Geralt lunges up from his seat, catching the blade between his two bare hands. He flings it away from Jaskier. The force rips it clean from the man’s fist and sends it clattering to the floor a dozen feet away.

The man opens his mouth to say something predictable and boring. Geralt’s fist silences him. Blood splatters across Geralt’s hand as the man falls back onto his ass. He didn’t punch with his full strength and he wasn’t wearing his gauntlets so the man should recover with minimal brain damage.

Jaskier snatches up his lute and their packs and bolts. These things frequently escalate into a brawl and it's best for everyone involved that Jaskier not be involved.

There are humans present after all.

*****

_Jaskier’s childhood was a time of peace and joy in his life. His parents loved him. His town tolerated him. It was the best life he could have asked for._

_He started singing almost as soon as he could talk, imitating the melodies of lullabies. His parents were delighted. As he grew older, he learned other types of music. The people in his town were musically inclined and almost every household owned an instrument of some type. Their neighbors to the south had a drum, their neighbors to the north had a lute and the family across the lane had a harp._

_His mother would sing and there was never a quiet moment in their home._

_When he was ten he became best friends with the son of the lute-playing family. His new friend, Filip, taught him how to play the lute, spending afternoons practicing finger positioning until Jaskier had a lute player’s distinctive calluses._

_When he was fourteen he began traveling with his father and Filip to nearby villages to perform. He became as famous as one could get in their little valley._

_At sixteen, he saw his first town. The bustle shocked him, as did the crowded buildings. You could stand in the town square and see only buildings, no countryside peeking through. He loved it._

_At eighteen, he saw his first city. You could walk for thirty minutes and barely get from one gate to the next. The crush of people was overwhelming, more people in a single building than in his entire village. He could stay there forever. Women cast him sultry looks under long eyelashes and the men appraise him openly. He takes both up on their offers._

_Filip didn’t like the city as much, preferring the simpler life of the countryside where you didn’t have to keep track of an ever-rotating order of favors and favorites. Sometimes he would stay in their room at the inn and Jaskier would descend the stairs alone, lute in his arms, to serenade the prettiest person at the bar._

_He begins to perform his own songs instead of the ones his father taught him. He’d been writing little tunes for ages but never anything long enough to perform until now. His reputation takes off immediately. Instead of singing small town songs, he’s singing about lust and love and jealousy. He becomes known for only singing about things he has personally experienced. He might change the names but the people that know him know who he’s talking about._

_By twenty, Filip no longer travels with him. They grow apart, and Filip takes his lute with him. Jaskier starts saving his meager earnings for a lute of his own. There is a master craftsman in Oxenfurt who makes the most beautiful lutes and Jaskier knows he will have to save for years to afford it, but he knows as soon as he has his hands on his lute, he can leave this village forever._

_At twenty-two, a man arrives in their village. He’s heard Jaskier sing before and wants to take him to Novigrad. His parents are reluctant but Jaskier is excited and besides, the man promises him a lute from Oxenfurt._

_Jaskier has almost saved enough for a lute of his own, but his father says the family needs the money for repairing the roof after last winter’s snow and other upkeep besides. It’s more money than anyone in their family has ever had at once, and there are so many things they must have to survive that require money. Seeds and repairs and new tools. Maybe a goat._

_Jaskier convinces his family of a compromise: he will go with the man to Novigrad and get his lute and in exchange for their well-wishes, Jaskier will give them his saved money. His mother wants to refuse but his father pulls her aside and after a short whispered discussion, they agree to hold a small gathering to send him off._

_Jaskier invites the whole village, which really wasn’t that many people. The man is happy to talk with his parents and his neighbors and hear stories of Jaskier’s youth. Even Filip attends, muscles bigger now that he’s spending his time in the fields instead of playing the lute. He’s almost twice the size of Jaskier it seems._

_He brings his lute and the two of them have their last duet, a farewell to their childhood._

_Jaskier wishes he remembered the names of the other people in town so that he could sing songs about them properly. It doesn’t really matter. None of them are still alive._

_*****_

When they’re out of sight of the village, Jaskier jogs to catch up with Geralt and grabs onto his hand. Geralt lets Jaskier take it with the ease of familiarity. Jaskier hums and licks across Geralt’s knuckles, enjoying the salt and iron taste of blood. He can feel Geralt’s pulse under his thumb and he lingers, enjoying the feel of Geralt’s skin.

Geralt could have wiped his hand off at any point after the fight but he shows his appreciation of Jaskier in small ways.

There’s nothing like fresh human blood. Jaskier has tried bottling it before, on battlefields and after Geralt’s fights, but the taste quickly deteriorates. It’s probably partially due to the witcher potion they have to drip into the vials to keep the blood from drying out. Jaskier has also tried monster blood, but for the most part he prefers human.

Even humanoid monsters taste better than the really gross looking creatures. Jaskier tried kikimore blood once and he still gags when he thinks about it.

Of course, he’s never tried witcher blood. He has an easy truce with Geralt. They travel together because Jaskier needs companionship and Geralt can’t let a monster like him roam loose. Asking to try Geralt’s blood would risk their careful peace. Jaskier refuses to lose Geralt.

The witcher has been the only good thing in his life for a very long time. If sometimes Jaskier’s eyes linger too long on Geralt, that’s Jaskier’s problem to deal with.

He still wonders what Geralt would taste like though.

Jaskier knows he needs to feed, because his mind keeps returning to the thought of blood. It becomes an obsession when he goes too long without breaking his fast. They need to find a new town, one in which Jaskier can have at least a snack. Maybe even a full meal. Jaskier sighs happily at the idea of being full.

“Which way should we go now?” Jaskier asks. Geralt knows these roads better than Jaskier ever will. He’ll know where to find a place for Jaskier to hunt.

“West,” Geralt says and that’s enough for Jaskier.

They turn their backs on the rising sun.

_*****_

_The stranger laughs, dances and sings along with the villagers as they celebrate Jaskier’s last night in his hometown. They party between the houses as no single house in town big enough to contain all of them. The mead and ale flow freely, and the man even brought some fancy wines from Toussaint that were greatly enjoyed by all._

_By the time the full moon was directly overhead, the bonfires were beginning to die down. Jaskier laughs at a joke Filip told, tossing his head back. When he stops, the stranger was staring at his neck with a familiar hunger._

_Oh._

_Jaskier hasn’t even considered that they might have this kind of relationship. He licks his lips, tasting dark red wine. The man stands suddenly. He offers his hand to Jaskier, and they slip away from the party, stepping into the long shadows cast by the bonfires. Away from the fire it is cold and dark._

_The man pulls Jaskier behind one of the houses and pushes him up against the back wall with just enough force to make Jaskier’s breath catch in his throat. Jaskier wraps his arms around the man’s neck and pulls him closer. The man’s hands settle on Jaskier’s hips._

_“You sing so beautifully, songbird,” the man croons. “I knew you were the right choice.”_

_Jaskier says the man’s name, long forgotten, and tilts his head to the side to let the man run his lips down Jaskier’s neck. His lips are cold against Jaskier’s overheated skin. The man chose his spot near the base of Jaskier’s neck and begins to suck a dark mark into his pale skin. Jaskier groans and pulls him tighter._

_The man’s tongue runs soothingly over the abused skin and Jaskier enjoys the faint ache that accompanies the love mark. The man moves his mouth up and to the side, until Jaskier can feel his pulse beating against the man’s lips._

_The man opens his mouth and bites down._

_Pain lances through Jaskier’s neck, his arms jerking._

_“Ow,” Jaskier hisses. “Stop, damn it, that hurts!”_

_The man ignores his words, hands tightening until Jaskier’s hipbones ached._

_“I said, let go,” Jaskier says. He pushes back at the man’s shoulders but he doesn’t even rock back._

_When the man finally does pull back, the moonlight reflects in a slick substance smeared across his lips._

_“Hey!”_

_A shout pulls Jaskier’s attention away from the stranger._

_Filip is standing behind the man, a tree branch in his hand._

_“He said, let go!” Filip says and swung the branch with all the strength of a farmer._

_The wood shatters across the man’s head and he doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t even flinch._

_“Filip!” Jaskier cries, beginning to struggle in earnest._

_The man sighs, and places one hand on Jaskier’s chest, keeping him pinned in place._

_“You should leave, Filip,” the man says. “Jaskier will be leaving tomorrow. What happens to him is no longer your concern.”_

_Filip shouts and charges him. Jaskier is pinned so tight he can’t even get the air to scream as the man backhands Filip._

_Filip goes down like he’s been kicked in the head by a horse. Jaskier’s head cracks back against the wall. He’s breathing in shallow gasps, his head starting to spin. He can’t look away from the dark lump that is Filip, crumpled on the ground._

_The pain in his neck sinks deeper, then courses up to his head. Jaskier screams silently as he claws at the stranger’s wrist, trying to break free. His whole body is covered in sweat and it's very cold outside but he feels too hot. The heat rises as his vision tunnels and the last thing he remembers is the stranger’s huff of laughter._

_*****_

They make it to another town and while Jaskier feeds Geralt gets hired.

The stable boy is more than willing to tumble Jaskier into bed. He moans and comes when Jaskier sinks his fangs into the back of his neck. His blood is thin and bland but Jaskier stops himself from taking more to substitute for the low quality. It’s enough to ask him a couple days.

Bright-eyed and a little jittery, Jaskier listens as Geralt lays out what information he’d managed to get from the farmer that hired him.

A week ago, his top farmhand announced his upcoming engagement. This was odd, as no one had ever heard him mention that he had a lover, much less someone he was ready to marry. When they pressed him on the matter, he admitted that he’d only known this girl a month, but she was beautiful like the sun and sweet as sugar and he just had to marry her before she fell in love with someone else.

The other farmhands teased him endlessly but the farmer agreed to host the wedding celebration on his land. Local weddings were a three-day long party that culminated in the ceremonial binding of the bride and groom together. With this in mind, the top farmhand spent his life’s savings on food and drink for the guests and a dress for his bride. Even then the results were meager so the farmer had quietly subsidized the wedding so that it would be everything a groom could dream of.

On the first day of the wedding celebration, the bride arrived in a carriage. When the top farmhand helped her alight, the guests got their first look at their friend’s fiancee. She was indeed gorgeous, an unparalleled beauty.

Instantly others were jealous.

On the first night, three men got in a fight so violent that they had to be ripped apart, blood splattering the floor of the barn. It was an inauspicious omen.

The next morning two of the men involved in the fight were found with their heads bashed in, and there were marks around the groom’s doorknob that suggested someone had tried to break into his room. The third man from the fight was nowhere to be found.

On the second night, a man got drunk and fell into the pond on the farm. They found him later that night, and when they pulled the body out of the lake they found that his head had been bashed in, just like the others. In a panic the farmer tried to gather all the guests inside, but too many had wandered off. Everyone who wasn’t sequestered inside showed up dead with the same trauma to the head.

On the third night, the bride was kidnapped. The farmer’s wife said she heard screaming during the night and came running to investigate, only to see someone tossed into the bride’s carriage. The carriage took off with the bride and the kidnapper.

When the survivors had tried to track the carriage the next day, the wheel grooves in the road disappeared about a mile from the farmhouse. There was no sign of the bride or the kidnapper.

The farmer was positive that Jakub, the man who disappeared, was the culprit.

Geralt relays this all to Jaskier while they packed their bags.

“I thought you didn’t hunt humans,” Jaskier says, confused.

“This isn’t the work of a human,” Geralt says. He hauls their bags over his shoulders and lets Jaskier get the doors as they leave.

_*****_

_He’s lost in a sea of nothing. No sight, no sound, nothing to touch. Without those clues, it’s hard to tell what's up and what's down and he finds himself stumbling about, colliding with the ground again and again._

_He can smell something delicious nearby, but it seems to be coming from everywhere. No matter where he goes, the scent remains all around him. It reminds him of crispy bacon, or the sweet aroma of the first apples of fall. It’s nothing like either of those things but the emotion it evokes is the same, that same longing and hunger._

_His throat is sore from screaming, but he can’t hear a single noise now. No matter what he says, no matter what he sings, there is only silence._

_He flails his arms, trying to find something to touch, something to hold onto. He keeps feeling the slightest bit of resistance, like he’s found something, and then his fingers slide right through._

_His hearing returns slowly. He can hear a low groan, a cry and a harsh exhale. Someone is shouting._

_He tries to get closer to the noise, tries to reach out and find whoever is with him in the dark._

_The shouting gurgles to a stop._

_*****_

_They start at the farmhouse. The guests have long since fled home, but there was enough evidence left on the bodies for Geralt to make headway. It has been three days since the kidnapping and the bodies were being stored in the cellar of the farmhouse. They had almost been buried when the farmer heard of Geralt’s arrival._

_Eight bodies were laid out on the floor of the cellar. It is cramped quarters. Geralt spends a good hour poking and sniffing at the bodies, thought smell is enough to make Jaskier gag. Geralt is built of sterner stuff and doesn’t even turn a little green._

_Jaskier distracts himself by watching the micro-expressions that flit across Geralt’s face as he examines the corpses. The furrow in his brow deepens each time_

_“Each killing blow is the same,” Geralt says finally. “Same angle, same spot, same force.”_

_“One killer then,” Jaskier deduces. “And it’s someone who has killed before, at least enough to have a preferred method.”_

_“It’s someone short,” Geralt says. “Your height.”_

_“Fuck off, Geralt.”_

_“It’s not someone super strong, just using a heavy weapon,” Geralt continues. “Hmm. There’s another scent here but it's too faint to isolate.”_

_They walk from the farmhouse down the road, collecting Roach from the stables and following the carriage wheel tracks. The ruts have faded with time, smeared by footprints and hoof prints._

_Geralt takes the lead while Jaskier trails with Roach. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow across the road._

_The trail leads them to the marker the farmer described, where the carriage appeared to disappear at a fork in the road._

_Geralt examines the ground carefully._

_“The road here has been tampered with,” he says. The ground is cracked and dry, but the road thus far had been damp, the footprints deep. “It’s been fired like in a kiln, hardening the road so there are no ruts.”_

_He examines the fork in the road, walking up each direction a ways._

_“The drying continues to the north but not to the south,” he says._

_“North we go then,” says Jaskier._

_*****_

_Jaskier wakes up sticky. It’s not a totally unfamiliar event so he yawns and rolls over to sleep more. The ground underneath him is hard and unforgiving. Which it’s fine, he frequently sleeps on the ground but usually not after a night of conquest. Jaskier frowns and opens his eyes._

_The village is painted in blood. Brown, slowly drying blood. He doesn’t see anyone on first glance but a cold prickling sensation washes down his spine._

_Ever so gently, Jaskier pushes himself up to his knees. He resolutely does not look behind him. Cold panic rises in him._

_He remembers the man striking down Filip, remembers the pain in his neck. Jaskier lifts a hand to touch his neck and realizes his hands are covered in blood. The blood is sticky and terrible. Jaskier has to gently pull apart his stuck together fingers._

_He knows he’s a fool but he’s not stupid. He was bitten by a man with supernatural strength and woke up covered in blood. There’s a very good chance he’s not human anymore._

_Jaskier rises on shaky knees to look behind himself._

_It’s worse than he expected._

_There are twelve corpses on the ground behind him, every face familiar._

_The only person missing inks Filip, who Jaskier finds behind the houses, crumbled just like Jaskier has last seen him. The partiers must have gone first, their screams drawing out the villagers that had gone to bed._

_His parents barely made it out of their front door. Jaskier turns and vomits._

_What comes up is red. Jaskier knows better than to think it’s last night’s wine. He vomits again and loses track of time as he gags and retches until nothing is left. He slumps to the ground to cry._

_*****_

They find the body on the side of the road, head smashed it. Geralt rolls the corpse onto its back with his foot. The stench is enough to make Jaskier’s eyes water. Keeping bodies in a cellar wasn’t ideal, but it has certainly delayed the process of decay. This body is newer yet far more decomposed.

“Weird that Jakub would kill someone not from the party,” Jaskier says. “He has the bride now, what’s the point in continuing to kill?”

“Jakub isn’t the killer,” Geralt says. He has a small additional furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s trying to unravel a puzzle.

“How could you possibly know that?” Jaskier asks.

“Because this is Jakub,” Geralt says. “I recognize his smell from the farm.”

They stare down at Jakub’s corpse, one contemplative, the other curious.

“That only leaves one suspect,” Jaskier says. “But what is she?”

The bride might be human, but the sheer number of kills suggested otherwise.

“Succubus,” Geralt says. “The farmer said she was gorgeous.”

“I thought you said they’re not violent monsters,” Jaskier says. A bit of a whine creeps into his voice. He’s always wanted to meet a succubus and now he was stuck with a homicidal one.

“Monsters are like humans,” Geralt says. “Within a single species there is a range of hunger for violence. Most succubi are spellcasters who specialize in fire, but this one has a different weapon of choice. “

“A rock,” Jaskier says and digs around in the high grass. He picks up the murder weapon casually and tosses it in his hand.

Its surface is smooth and it fits perfectly in the palm of Jaskier’s hand. It’s also covered in blood and what smells like brain matter.

Gross.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and draws the rock to his nose, inhaling deeply. Jaskier tries to steady his arm from shaking as Geralt’s exhale brushes over the thin skin of his wrist.

“It's definitely a succubus,” Geralt says. He drops Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier hides his hands behind his back.

“You can pick up a scent trail from a rock?”

Geralt almost rolls his eyes.

“I can smell her magic,” Geralt says.

Ah. That makes more sense. Jaskier took a chance to sniff the rock himself and noticed a faint smell of spice that spreads heat from his cheeks down his chest.

Jaskier shudders and Geralt slaps the rock from his hand.

“She’s powerful, be wary,” Geralt warns. He reaches up to loosen his silver sword in its sheath.

_*****_

_Jaskier finds his family's shovel and digs twelve graves. He works until the sun has risen and started to set, when the sunlight turns deep orange. His muscles barely notice the strain of moving all that earth. He lays each and every member of his village down in the dirt, face-up, and begins the long process of burying them._

_It takes him even longer to cover them up, mostly because he keeps having to stop to wail. He can’t seem to cry, but he still has his voice and it's the only way he can express his grief. He works straight through the night, unaffected by the cold and the dark._

_When morning comes, he tosses the last shovel of soil into the last grave. He flings aside the shovel then goes and picks it up, carefully returning it to its proper place by his home._

_Jaskier goes to the well. He lowers the bucket into the well and hauls it back out with shocking ease. Even when he reaches out to grab the bucket and set it on the edge of the well, the weight of the water is inconsequential._

_The first bucket he dumps over his head and it puddles at his feet, hazy and brown. There’s frost clinging to the plants nearby, but he doesn’t feel the cold, even soaking wet. His clothing is too blood-soaked to save so Jaskier strips out of it, accidentally ripping his pants in his struggle to get free. He flings the wet bundle to the ground._

_The second bucket washes away the worst of the blood on his person. He is uninjured. When he pokes at the bite on his neck, there is no blood, only a scar._

_He finds his bard clothing in the bag he had packed for his adventure to Novigrad. The outfit was made for him last month and it fits perfectly. He can’t have changed much outwardly. He feels at his face but it's just his normal, usual face. Nothing weird about it. He slings his back over his shoulder, then goes back into his parents house._

_There’s barely any blood in there. The normalcy of it hits him like a punch. He hurries over to the back corner and climbs onto the table there, reaching into the rafters to pull down his life’s savings. His family won’t be needing it to repair the roof anymore._

_He gets out of the house as fast as he can._

_He walks north, out of the village, and passes Filip’s house as he walks. After a moments thought he backtracks, ducks inside and comes back out with the lute. He swings it over his shoulder and continues on his way._

_Half a mile up the road, he comes across the corpse of the stranger lying on its side. He looks like the other dead with five deep cuts slashing him from throat to waist. He must have dragged himself out of the village but ultimately hadn’t made it far. Jaskier walks over and plants his foot on the man’s shoulder, kicking him fully onto his back. There’s an additional wound on his chest. Jaskier crouches down to get a better look._

_The area above the man’s heart is a bloody mess. Jaskier has a flash of a memory, recalls the sensation of his fingers, longer than usual, sinking straight into the man’s chest. Whatever the man had been, that must have been enough to kill him._

_The man’s mouth is open in a silent scream. Good. Jaskier hopes he died in agony._

_*****_

“Tell me about succubi,” Jaskier says, as they work to make camp. After traveling together for so long it’s an easy dance between the two of them. Jaskier works as he thinks about how to work this latest monster into his ballads. A murderous succubus wasn’t as sexy as a non-murderous one but he will take what he can get. Maybe he’d even work in some sexual tension between her and Geralt. He was positive that Geralt has slept with a monster before, but Geralt refuses to tell him about it.

Geralt thinks about it for a moment. “Succubi prey off of the sexual energy of humans. Generally, they first appear in a person’s dreams, then eventually in physical form. They can kill if they take too much energy but in general, they take so little that a person will barely notice the loss. Kind of like a tick with blood.

“That’s the least sexy way you could have put it,” Jaskier complains and Geralt hides a flash of a smile.

They break out the spirits purely for the enjoyment of the taste. It takes Geralt a full bottle to get drunk and Jaskier hasn’t managed to get even tipsy since his change.

Jaskier bought two bottles in town, both herbaceous gins from Oxenfurt. It cost him almost all of his money but it’s not like he needed to save up for anything.

They pass the first bottle back and forth as they sit by the fire, discussing succubi.

“Are there male succubi?” Jaskier asks.

“Incubi,” Geralt nods. “Though they’re rarer.”

“And they’re just a monster that feeds off little bits of people’s energies? It seems harmless enough, for a monster,” says Jaskier. He is much more dangerous than that.

“They have an affinity for dream walking and fire magic,” Geralt says. “Which she’ll use when we get close.”

“Hence the dried roads,” Jaskier nods. “Makes sense. Why would one be driven to kill?”

“Same reason anyone is,” Geralt shrugs. “Jealousy, fear, anger or bloodlust.”

“I’m not sure bloodlust is something that applies to just anyone.”

“Anyone can get a taste for violence,” Geralt says, his voice darkening. Jaskier passes him the bottle and he finishes it off. Best to change the topic before Geralt gets in one of his moods, Jaskier. He digs a claw into the cork of the second bottle and yanks it free.

“So, Geralt,” Jaskier asks and winks. “How do you plan on taking her down?”

Much to his delight, Geralt actually rolls his eyes. He’s getting tipsy. Jaskier presses the second bottle into his hand.

“Not going to sleep with a succubus,” Geralt says.

“Why not? You said yourself that it's not a danger, and the sex must be fantastic.”

“She’s been braining people with rocks, Jaskier,” Geralt growls. He drinks deeply from the bottle.

“Ignoring that.”

“I wouldn’t sleep with a succubus,” Geralt says. “They can get a taste for witcher energy.”

It seemed like every monster that encountered Geralt was fascinated by him. Jaskier was no exception. He is careful never to sample Geralt’s blood when he takes a snack from the blood splatterings.

“I thought you were an incubus when I first met you,” Geralt says. Jaskier chokes on air.

Jaskier stares at him, the orange light of the fire casting sharp shadows across the knife's edge of Geralt’s cheekbones. Geralt looks back at him, his cat eyes relaxed, trusting and a little too wide for in the light of the fire.

“You, my friend, have drunk too much,” Jaskier sighs. He reaches over to snatch the bottle back from Geralt and ends up sprawled across Geralt’s lap as the witcher swings the wine out of reach.

Jaskier curses as they tussle, trying to grab the bottle before it spills but he fails. Geralt drops the bottle on the ground, the spirits pouring onto the dirt. He uses his free hand to grab Jaskier’s reaching arm. Then they’re tumbling to the side, Jaskier’s hip ending up in the pool of spirits as Geralt lands on him.

Geralt is heavy on top of him, their legs tangled together. Jaskier tries to curl up on himself to avoid Geralt feeling how Jaskier’s cock takes interest. Jaskier tries to push Geralt off of him but Geralt’s hands are tight around his wrists.

“Um, Geralt,” Jaskier says. His breath is coming fast now, heartbeat pounding.

A loud snore sounds by Jaskier’s ear.

“Damn it, Geralt,” Jaskier snaps. He slaps Geralt's side to no avail. Jaskier groans and rolls his eyes.

“You damn lightweight,” Jaskier says. “Just a bottle and a half and you pass out.”

It takes some of Jaskier’s supernatural strength to break free of Geralt’s grip and hoist him up and off of Jaskier. Even slack with sleep, the witcher is surprisingly strong and built like a boulder.

Jaskier wrestles Geralt into his sleeping roll and tries to arrange him in a position that seems comfortable.

“Fuck,” he sighs. For a moment there he thought Geralt was flirting with him. Heart confused, he pulls out his lute and settles in to spend some time composing while he keeps watch.

He sings of stubborn witchers and their unfairly pretty cat eyes, ridiculous muscles and emotionless hearts.

He knows Geralt has feelings. He knows Geralt was in love with Yen for a time. But just because Geralt can love doesn’t mean he’s going to love a monster like Jaskier. Sometimes it's easier to pretend that Geralt doesn’t love, to pretend he’s as close to Geralt as a person can get.

Lies are so frequently nicer than truths.

_*****_

_His childhood luck has run out._

_His new condition is hard to control. He learns the hard way what he can and can’t do, and he learns it again and again._

_He brings misfortune wherever he goes because he is the misfortune that arrives on their doorstep._

_Jaskier tries living alone, as far out in the woods as he can run, but humans are everywhere and inevitably he gets found. He never remembers being found, just wakes up at someone else’s camp, covered in blood. The bloodlust must take over as soon as he smells them._

_His sense of smell is heightened now, specially tuned to the scent of blood. He can track injured prey without ever taking a wrong turn. He tries desperately to only hunt already injured prey, but the hunger drives him past his self imposed limits._

_When he can no longer bear to be alone except for the corpses of his prey, Jaskier begins to walk back towards civilization. He’s a social person, and whatever transformation he’s gone through hasn’t changed his need for contact with others._

_He loses track of how many people he’s killed. Most of them are ones who were kind to him, or ones who tried to harm him. The later he kills out of self-defense, and the former ends up dead because of how he lingers around them. He so desperately wants their kindness._

_He kills the gruff soldier with a soft heart that offered to share his camp with him. Like always, he wakes up to blood-splattered ground. He kills the bandit that tries to steal the lute from his back. He kills the farmer who said that Jaskier reminded him of his son and invited him in for a meal. He kills the elf who was just trying to defend his territory. He kills the kind grandmother who offered to mend the hole in his jerkin from the arrow wound he’d sustained against the elf. His skin is undamaged but the brocade was far more delicate._

_Again and again and again he kills._

_Eventually he manages to turn into his secondary form intentionally, nearly panicing as his fingers become along talons and his face crinkles into a permanent snarl. The first chance he gets, he spends a little of his money at an inn for a room, just for the mirror._

_His secondary form really is ugly. Jaskier would cry if he could._

_His upper lip is drawn back to expose huge canines, his nose looks like it's been sheared clean off his face, and he has wrinkles._

_He vows never to expose this face if he can help it._

_*****_

The road takes them towards the coast. Seagulls begin to appear overhead, calling out to one another.

They pass through a village along the cliffs, much smaller than the town they’d left from. There’s a single inn with a few rooms open. Jaskier reserves them a room for when they come back from the hunt. It's always best to have these things sorted out before Geralt shows up covered in monster guts.

He asks about the road they are on and is told it leads to an abandoned lighthouse. Jaskier’s eyes light up and he immediately begins thinking of rhymes. Delouse, spouse, blouse. Nothing’s quite right but he’s working on it.

Geralt rides Roach as they get closer to reserve his strength for the fight. Jaskier walks alongside, shifting just a little bit so he can keep up. Jaskier can smell the salt on the breeze.

Above them the seagulls scream and disperse.

Geralt pulls out his crossbow and there’s a bolt in place before he sees the threat.

They come streaking up over the side of the cliffs, arms outstretched, tail whipping in the wind and tits out. Sirens.

Jaskier yells as they rush forward. Geralt’s crossbow twangs and one of the scary ladies crashes down to earth, a bolt buried in her eye socket.

“Gross,” Jaskier says and ducks as another siren swoops in close, claws raking through the air where he’d been standing. Her arm comes flying off as Geralt draws his sword. Jaskier dances around to put Geralt and Roach between him and the danger.

Geralt takes down another three with his crossbow before Roach gets spooked. He dismounts in a hurry before she bolts, his momentary distraction giving the sirens time to get closer.

Up close the sirens are beautiful, their long hair and scales gleaming in the sunlight. Jaskier almost feels bad when he shifts his fingers into long talons. Then one sneaks up on him and slaps him with her tail, sending him face-first into the dirt.

“Jaskier, get back,” Geralt roars, as if Jaskier is something that needs protecting, and there’s the sound of flesh parking around a blade. Jaskier struggles to his knees and blood splatters his face as Geralt finishes off the siren that attacked him.

The blood is hot on his face. Jaskier shudders at the smell and his tongue darts out to catch the drops on his lips.

Siren blood tastes like the sea, rather like the oysters Jaskier tried when he was first a touring bard. It’s delicious. He can feel the haze rising in his mind, the hunger clawing at his stomach. It’s been four days since he last fed.

Jaskier moves back to give Geralt more space to swing his silver sword and looks around.

There’s three options left. They’re all smarter than their companions, keeping further up in the air, out of slicing range. Geralt stabs his sword into the ground to get two hands on his crossbow and they approach altogether, shrieking.

Geralt gets one in the forehead and tosses his crossbow aside. He grabs his sword to deal with the others, yanking it free of the dirt and stabbing upward. The two remaining sirens dodge. One backs up and comes in for a second attack, while the second flies up and behind Geralt. He’s too busy focusing on the one coming straight at him to deal with the second as it drops in to slash at his back. Her claws never land.

Jaskier gets his talons into her fleshy sides and rips. She crashes to the ground just as Geralt dispatches the other and spins around to deal with Jaskier’s siren, silver flashing.

The tip of that lethal silver sword comes to a halt just shy of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier is forever grateful for Geralt’s quick reflexes.

Geralt drops the tip of his sword and looks down at where Jaskier’s talons are buried in the dead siren.

“Hmm,” Geralt says and turns to wipe his blade clean on his tunic like a heathen. Jaskier rips his hands free of the siren and contemplates the mess. He has more than just blood on his fingers, and the idea of licking them clean turns his stomach. He reaches over to use the other side of Geralt’s tunic to clean off the blood. His hands graze against Geralt’s abs. “Hey.”

Geralt’s voice is full of empty threats and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Only one of us has already ruined his tunic and it's not me,” Jaskier says.

Geralt only grunts in response.

The fight has brought them closer to the cliff and to the north they can see the lighthouse. Geralt whistles for Roach and they begin the climb towards their target.

_*****_

_Jaskier takes up singing again, because his savings are long gone and occasionally he needs to sleep inside to remember he’s human. Mostly human, atleast._

_He has Filip’s lute, carefully protected from the elements and his own vicious tendencies, which he tunes carefully. It’s been so long since he practiced but it all comes back to him quickly once his fingers are on the strings. His voice is rusty too. He gets booed at the first couple inns he visits._

_Jaskier used to care too much when he flopped. He used to cry backstage. Now, he cares far more about getting paid. A flop means sleeping outside, again, which he finds increasingly aggravating._

_The musics helps to center him again. He sings old songs, the ones his parent’s taught him. Never any of his own work. He tries occasionally to compose something new, something in line with how he’s feeling now, but result is a song so full of fear and hurt that he could never sing it in a tavern._

_He learns now to spend a full night around people without losing his head. Each day he spends around humans, the stronger his control over his shift gets. He has little snacks frequently, instead of starving until he’s too ravenous to control himself. It’s a simple thing to seduce someone to his room, and take a sip of their blood while they're in the throws of pleasure. He never seeks his own orgasm, focusing solely on his partner. He has to feed almost daily but it’s a fine distraction. He only kills a couple people before he gets his technique down._

_Jaskier starts to feel like his old self again, though it's hard to do while his life is so depressing. If he just doesn’t think about it too hard, he can smile and sing just like a normal bard. He still can’t write his own songs though._

_He tries to look for inspiration in other places, since his own experiences are off the table. After singing, he’ll linger in the inns and taverns, talking to the drunken patrons. They spill their life stories to him. None are like his own, but none are exactly worth a song either. Peoples’ lives are so simple and painful. Jaskier wants heroics and strong emotions and action. He’s not going to write a song about how Tom broke his heart because Lauren married John the sheepherder. There’s not enough drama._

_He hears about a man who sold his daughter to the sorceresses of Aretuza. He never saw her again._

_He hears about a woman born under the curse of the black sun. Her life was one of misery, locked away from the world to prevent her from becoming the monster the prophecy told of._

_He hears about a witcher with white hair that slaughtered half the town of Blaviken. The first time he hears the story, he breaks out into a cold sweat and has to excuse himself immediately. He spends the next week running as fast as he can in the opposite direction as Blaviken._

_The mistake he made, in retrospect, is that of course the witcher is also running as far away from Blaviken as he could get._

_The first time Jaskier sees Geralt of Rivia, he turns on his heel and walks straight back out of the inn, out into the woods and spent the night huddled in between the exposed roots of a pine tree, shaking uncontrollably._

_Jaskier didn’t know what he was, but surely he is exactly what witchers are created to kill._

_*****_

They break through the front door with a grapeshot bomb. The lighthouse creaks and moans as dust, shrapnel and pieces of the door go flying. Geralt rolls another bomb in through the opening that spits out a green smoke. He charges in after it.

Jaskier coughs and waits for the dust to die down a bit before he follows.

The ground floor of the lighthouse is empty except for the green smoke settling low on the floor

He can hear Geralt’s footsteps above him, and even further up he can hear the slow beating of a monster’s heart. He races for the stairs.

He’s almost to them when he hears the clash of iron and silver.

“Fuck,” says Geralt and Jaskier bursts into the top floor of the lighthouse.

The succubus is indeed beautiful. In another world, Jaskier would write ballads to her looks and the grace of her movements. Here and now though, she is advancing on Geralt with an iron sword in her right hand. She holds it with the casual grip of someone very familiar with combat.

Her skin is made of moonlight and her red curls bounce and swing as she moves. Her eyes are bright green but there’s something wrong with her smile, something cruel. Her white dress flutters around her. The only sign that she’s not human is the ram’s horns curl tight against her head.

She trades blows with Geralt, her iron blade cutting deep into his silver sword.

Jaskier is half hidden by the massive brazier in the center of the room. It’s lit, casting stark shadows across the small room. The wind whistles in through the openings in the walls, stoking the fire even higher.

Jaskier keeps on the far side of the room, moving as the battle moves. The last thing he wants to do is get in Geralt’s way and accidentally endanger the witcher. The second to last thing he wants is to be cut down by Geralt’s silver sword.

Despite his best efforts to keep hidden, the succubus sees him. She twists her wrist and slaps away Geralt’s blade, stepping backward out of his range.

“Ah,” the succubus smiles. “The Butch of Blaviken and his songbird.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Jaskier spits and lunges forward. Her eyes widen and she dodges to the side, faster than any human could move. “And don’t call him that either.”

She swings at him and he catches the blade in his hand, gripping it tight. He lunges face first towards her neck and manages a small bite before he’s thrown back, his head cracking against the rock walls.

Succubus blood is sweet and heavy, like a Toussaint wine. His head spins from the blow against the wall. All he can focus on is the ambrosia on his tongue.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts and he swings at the succubus, moving faster now. “Jaskier, spit that out!, do not swallow!”

“You’re supposed to want the opposite,” Jaskier says, head getting foggy. Smoke rises up around him and the light from the brazier dims. Geralt’s voice fades and distantly he hears someone say “If you come nearby, I’ll slit your little songbird’s throat.”

The smoke gets thicker around him and soft fingers caress his jaw. His head is tilted up and he sees the succubus standing over him, her face soft. A arousal spreads through his veins with her blood, making his limbs heavy and the pain of his wounds fade.

“Sweet boy,” she croons. “What are you doing running around with someone like him?”

He moans softly, a shiver running from his toes to the top of his head.

“That’s it, sweet thing,” she says. “Just enjoy it, don’t you feel good?”

Heat pools in his stomach, the pleasure rising in waves and he realizes he could come just from his.

“Isn’t it better like this?” she says. “We can stay like this forever, away from that evil man.”

“He’s not evil,” Jaskier says automatically. Geralt is so good in his core.

“Oh dear, you’re in love with him,” the succubus says. “You poor boy. Don’t you know that witcher’s don’t have a heart? He’s more of a monster than we are.”

Fury sparks somewhere deep in Jaskier’s chest.

She runs a finger over the furrow in his brow, smoothing it and Jaskier feels his whole body relax. He turns his face towards her touch, his nose running along her wrist. She smells heavenly, like spring and honeysuckle.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he pants. “Between Geralt and I, the only monster is me.”

He bites down on her wrist. Blood spills hot into his mouth.

Her screech breaks through the spell of her blood, shattering the dream around him. A blow lands on his cheekbone, knocking his teeth loose from her arm. Black spots dance in his vision. He sees her stumble backward, clutching her right wrist to her chest. Blood pours from her wound, staining her white clothes red.

Geralt is between them suddenly, silver blade flashing out. She shrieks again, sword lashing out. But she’s fighting with her left hand now and Geralt is a master swordsman. He drives her away from Jaskier, to the far side of the brazier by the stairs. 

Jaskier drags himself to his feet, his heart beating an unsteady rhythm. Her blood has worked its way into his veins and pleasure spreads in its wake.

He flanks her by walking to the other side of the brazier. The blood on his tongue makes his talons itch to come out, so he lets the half shift occur. His face twists into something terrible but he’s too focused on hunting down his prey.

The heat under his skin has blossomed into a fire. Jaskier can’t help the groan that crawls up his throat. Geralt glances his way and it's all the time the succubus needs to flee, dashing down the stairs.

Geralt and Jaskier dash after her without a second thought. They rush down four flights of stairs and round the corner to see her standing in the blasted out doorway of the lighthouse.

She drops her sword and points her finger at them, chanting an incantation.

Geralt seizes Jaskier by the waist and hauls him backward. There’s the sound of magical flames sparking into existence and then fire catches the green smoke and the explosion knocks Geralt and Jaskier back into a heap on the stairs.

_*****_

_He sees the witcher from a distance twice more before his luck runs out, as it always does._

_Jaskier finishes singing his song, a bright composition about two merchants falling in love despite their competing mead businesses. As he turns to include more of the room in his music, he seems a man with shockingly white hair sitting at a booth. He’s only seen him a few times but Jaskier could not mistake Geralt of Rivia for some other incredibly hot and buff man with white hair._

_Jaskier chokes on the last notes of the song, earning him a disappointed glare from the people actually paying attention. Jaskier couldn’t care less._

_The witcher has already noticed him, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier’s stare._

_Running away would look too suspicious so Jaskier walks straight up to him instead. He drops down across the table from Geralt and lays his lute next to Geralt’s swords._

_“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says. His father did always say he had a death wish._

_“I’m here to drink alone,” Geralt of Rivia says and his voice is a marvelous thing. Something in Jaskier melts, mostly because Geralt didn’t kill him immediately and a little bit because having Geralt’s full attention has his heart pounding out a familiar beat._

_“You’re the witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says. He leans forward on the table, his face in his hand. Geralt ignores him, breaking his bread in half and taking a huge bite like some sort of drowned with no manners. “The butcher of Blaviken.”_

_The glower Geralt turns on him takes his breath away. It’s the strongest emotion he’s felt other than fear and self-hatred since he was changed._

_Jaskier could get addicted to this._

_Geralt looks him over and his nose flares._

_“Bard,” Geralt says. “Vampire.”_

_The fear returns. Jaskier folds his shaking hands under the table._

_“Oh, is that what I am?” Jaskier says, his voice high. “I wasn’t quite sure.”_

_Jaskier turns and waves at the innkeeper, ordering two pints of a stronger ale than he smells in Geralt’s cup._

_*****_

Jaskier’s vision is dark and his ears are ringing. Arousal is coursing through his body, but for now, he can ignore it because there are more pressing concerns at hand. Like escaping the burning lighthouse.

Strong arms hoist him into the air. Jaskier goes to complain and chokes on the dense smoke. He clings to Geralt’s shoulders and tries not to breathe as Geralt stumbles down the steps to the ground floor and out into the clear air. Jaskier sucks in deep breaths, his lungs stinging.

He is unceremoniously dumped on the ground. His vision is starting to return in spots and he can see Geralt rush back into the burning building. Jaskier tries to shout but all that comes out is a weak rasp.

Geralt reappears as quickly as he vanished, dragging a smoldering body by the ankle. Jaskier slumps back onto the dirt, his heartbeat slowly returning to a more normal pace.

Geralt drops the body on the ground and sits next to Jaskier. He looks worn out in a way witchers rarely do. The muscles around his eyes are tight with stress and his lips are downturned more than usual.

“You swallowed,” Geralt says. “I specifically said--”

“You told me way too late,” Jaskier sighs, flapping his hand dismissively. “You should have told me it makes people super horny.”

His cock is hard in his pants but he’s too tired to care that Geralt might notice.

Geralt definitely notices.

“There aren’t any texts on the impacts of different types of blood on vampires,” Geralt says. “You should know better than to drink strange blood.”

“I’ve had other monster blood before and been just fine,” Jaskier objects.

“Not magical humanoids,” snaps Geralt. Oh. Geralt is worried about him. A different heat warms Jaskier’s chest. He smiles helplessly over at Geralt.

“What?” Geralt demands. There’s blood drying in his hair, a massive green bruise blossoming on his cheek and ash everywhere. He’s never looked so handsome.

Arousal shoots through Jaskier like lightning and he moans, back arching off the ground.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts and he’s leaning over Jaskier, brow furrowed in worry. Jaskier doesn’t want to make him worry. Jaskier is just a vampire with a big mouth, there’s nothing to worry about.

“I’m good,” Jaskier gasps. He’s certainly not doing badly. For an unexpected side effect, being incredibly horny is more of an inconvenience than a danger.

“What are you feeling?” Geralt asks and Jaskier laughs. Geralt frowns harder.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jaskier says and laughs more. Another wave hits him and he can’t help the jerk of his hips.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, heels digging into the ground as he tries to steady himself. “Oh, fuck.”

Without the threat of death looming over him, the arousal is impossible to ignore. He bites his lip, trying to distract himself with pain but it feels good too. Everything feels good.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says and Jaskier blacks out.

He wakes up again in what he can only guess is their room at the inn. His body feels like it has been stomped on by Roach and his hands are bound behind him. The fire in his veins brings his body to a boil.

“Fuck,” Jaskier moans.

He hears the sound of something snapping and looks up to see Geralt seated at the room’s one table, digging into what looks like unexpectedly good food considering the state of the inn. Seeing that Jaskier is awake, he drops what looks like a mangled utensil onto the table.

“Geralt, why the hell am I tied up?”

Geralt walks over, dragging his chair with him. He settles the chair down in front of Jaskier and sits down.

“You were getting...handsy during the ride back,” Geralt says and Jaskier could just die from mortification. Also outrage, because he cannot believe he groped Geralt and can’t remember it.

Geralt looks at him with those pretty yellow cat eyes and, wow, he is just so impossibly handsome. Jaskier isn’t sure how such a man can exist.

Geralt makes a choking noise and, oh, Jaskier has been talking out loud. Geralt doesn’t look repulsed though. He looks worried.

Arousal spikes through his spine, heat rushing between his legs. Jaskier groans, head falling back.

“Geralt,” he says. “I should not have swallowed that succubus blood.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Jaskier laughs and curses as his hips jerk. He strains against the bindings on his hands, trying to get closer to Geralt.

Geralt reaches out and presses his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. It’s blissfully cool against his overheated skin.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. Geralt leans in closer to hear him and Jaskier turns his head to kiss him.

He feels a warm exhale ghost over his lips and then there’s a hand on his chest, pushing him hard back into his chair. His heart breaks a little bit but it's fine, he’ll pick up the pieces later. Right now he’s only concerned with the cool comfort of Geralt’s hand on his chest.

“Geralt, please, I want you,” Jaskier says and to his own private horror, his eyes fill with tears. “Geralt.”

“The magic in the blood will wear off by morning. You just need to wait it out.”

“I don’t want to wait, I want you to touch me. Take me, Geralt,” Jaskier pants.

“Not when you’re high on succubus blood.”

That wasn’t never and Jaskier’s broken heart and addled mind latch onto that crumb.

“Tomorrow?” Jaskier asks. “Tomorrow, you’ll touch me?”

Geralt pauses, his hand still pressing Jaskier into the back of his chair. He’s so effortlessly strong, stronger than even Jaskier when he shifts. All Jaskier wants is for Geralt to push him down and take him.

Geralt is cursing and Jaskier realizes he’s been talking out loud again. Shit. Oh well.

Sweat drips from his temple to his chin as he pants. He closes his eyes against the wet dream that is Geralt of Rivia and tries to force down the arousal in his veins.

“You just want me because of the blood,” Geralt says. “You’ll think better of it tomorrow.”

“How can it be the blood when I want you all the time?” Jaskier says. Geralt looks stricken.

A wave of arousal crashes over him and Jaskier is helpless against it, his body shaking and his mind going silent.

“Jaskier? Jaskier!”

He passes out again, slipping into blessedly cold darkness.

_*****_

_He talks at Geralt for hours, so excited to have someone to talk to that he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally killing. Geralt says five words the entire time. It’s a perfect arrangement, as far as Jaskier is concerned._

_It all comes to a rather anticlimactic end when Jaskier’s stomach rumbles._

_“Ah,” Jaskier says. He needs to feed today or tomorrow and this is the only town within a day's travel. “Hmm.”_

_“Are you going to hunt?” Geralt asks._

_“Are you asking so you’ll feel better when you kill me?” Jaskier asks pleasantly. He swings his feet._

_“I kill real monsters, not little bards,” Geralt scoffs._

_Jaskier smiled, letting just the tiniest shift occur. Geralt’s eyes snagged on Jaskier’s enlarged canines. “You’d be surprised the damage even a little bard can do.”_

_“No,” Geralt says seriously. “I wouldn’t.”_

_And now would be a perfect time for Jaskier to leave and try to make it to the next village as fast as he could. Instead, he leans back against the bench, a delighted smile pulling at his lips._

_“In that case...” Jaskier says. The innkeeper’s wife approaches them with more ale. Jaskier turns his whole body towards her and thanks her with a bright smile. He takes the ales from her, making sure to brush their hands together. She flushes and giggles like a girl ten years younger, before hurrying back to the bar. “I’ll just carry on as normal then, if I’m so harmless.”_

_Geralt watches him with dark eyes._

_It’s easy to seduce the innkeeper’s wife. Jaskier goes through the motions until she’s catching his eye and sneaking upstairs._

_Jaskier raises his ale at Geralt and downs the remainder in one go._

_“Lovely to talk to you tonight, but it appears I have business elsewhere.”_

_Geralt catches him by the jerkin as he slides out of the booth. Jaskier raises an eyebrow._

_“Yes?” Jaskier asks._

_“The innkeeper has noticed your game.” The innkeeper is indeed glancing after his wife and frowning in confusion._

_“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “That’s half the fun.”_

_He pries Geralt’s hand off his jerkin, finger by finger and a muscle twitches by Geralt’s left eye._

_Jaskier takes his lute and disappears after the innkeeper’s wife._

_The innkeeper is slow on the uptake. Jaskier has time to bring the innkeeper's wife to completion twice before someone tries the doorbell. Usually, orgasms make his partner tired but this woman is acting like she’s ready to go for a third with no sign of sleep in sight._

_The doorknob rattles._

_“Damn,” Jaskier hisses. He hasn’t even had his meal yet, hadn’t even had a snack._

_Shouting starts up and just as Jaskier hears the scraps of a key in the lock, he vaults out the window onto the roof of the stables._

_There’s snow on the roof and Jaskier loses his footing, sliding down past the edge and straight down onto the ground. Jaskier lands in a crumpled pile. He uncurls enough to check his lute and lets out a sigh of relief. Then he yelps, as someone grabs his collar and hauls him into the stables._

_Geralt claps his hand over Jaskier’s mouth, and a group of men comes barging out shouting and looking for Jaskier._

_“Don’t you know not to stick your dick in places that’ll get you in trouble?” Geralt growls quietly. His mouth is very close to Jaskier’s ear and a pleasant shiver runs up Jaskier’s spine. He hears Geralt slowly inhale, smelling him like he’s double checking that Jaskier really is a monster and not just an idiot with no sense of self preservation._

_Jaskier is very aware of the heat that radiates off Geralt and the slow, steady beat of his mutated heart. He wonders what witcher blood tastes like._

_Before he can investigate that line of thinking, there’s a shout nearby. Witchers and bards are not made for hiding and the innkeeper’s friends have spotted them._

_The men descend on them, fists swinging. Jaskier curls up around his lute and turns his back as the first fist approaches. It never lands._

_Instead, a man screams in pain and there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor._

_“Fuck off,” Geralt growls._

_“Fucking mutant,” someone says. Jaskier is trying to make himself as small as possible while still defending his lute._

_There’s the dull thud of a fist meeting flesh and more pained shouting._

_Two more bodies collapse to the floor. Jaskier peeks over his shoulder and sees all the men on the ground, knocked out cold._

_“Go before someone comes looking for them,” Geralt says but Jaskier’s attention is fully focused on the blood dripping down Geralt’s fist. He reaches out slowly and takes Geralt by the wrist. Geralt tenses but doesn’t resist as Jaskier brings his hand to his mouth and licks the blood off of Geralt’s fingers._

_Their blood tastes like drunken courage and panic. It’s intoxicating. Jaskier runs his tongue from the calloused pad of Geralt’s ring finger to the knuckle. Turning Geralt’s hand over he licks across the back of Geralt’s fingers, where his fist had connected with his opponent’s faces, splitting open their skin._

_Jaskier takes a shaky breath in and drops Geralt’s hand._

_When he gathers the courage to look at Geralt, the witcher is watching him with those unreadable cat eyes._

_Jaskier’s ears flush. He licks his lips nervously, tasting more blood._

_“How long until you need to feed?” Geralt asks._

_“I’m good for another day, but if I go longer than that bad things happen.”_

_Geralt hmms._

_When Jaskier leaves the town, the witcher follows him._

_Jaskier knows their interactions can only end in tragedy but he lets the witcher settle down in the camp Jaskier starts to set up once they’re ten miles out of the village. It’ll come to a head by morning, Jaskier is sure. By the time the sun rises only one of them will be alive._

_Except dawn finds them splitting some of Geralt’s cured meat and the fresh bread Jaskier stole from the inn._

_Somehow they end up traveling together, Jaskier too happy to have someone to talk to and Geralt supposedly unwilling to let a known threat wander around unsupervised._

_They stay at inns when Jaskier needs to hunt and it's just like before they met, except he has someone to talk to when he comes back to his rooms (or someone to run with as he gets chased out of town)._

_Geralt never judges him for his needs or his methods. He just waves Jaskier off while he drowns himself in ale and the occasional hot bath._

_Those are Jaskier’s favorite moments, when Geralt is mostly submerged in a bath and Jaskier’s belly is full of blood, his hunger gone. He would feel almost like a human in those moments, if it wasn’t for the taste of iron on his tongue._

_Jaskier’s second favorite moments are when Geralt finishes a fight and lets Jaskier lick the blood from his hands. Jaskier knows Geralt has gauntlets he should be wearing, but most of the time he fights without them, bringing Jaskier back a treat of monster blood._

_Human blood is still the best but he develops a taste for griffin blood as well and they carry some in vials for emergencies (and sometimes late night snacks)._

_Sometimes the witcher seems seconds away from calling it quits and they fight but sometimes Geralt does a strained little half smile and it fuels Jaskier’s good mood for days._

_It’s just so nice to have someone to talk to after all this time and Jaskier couldn’t shut up if Geralt threatened him with violence, which he does, repeatedly._

_He starts to write compositions about their adventures, promising Geralt that he’ll change his reputation as the Butcher of Blaviken._

_He doesn’t worry about hurting anyone with Geralt around. He knows any fight between them would be bloody and ugly but Geralt fights for a living and Jaskier only has instinct. He knows who would win. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier relaxes, knowing he won’t kill anyone unintentionally._

_This witcher is the best thing to ever happen to Jaskier._

_*****_

Jaskier wakes up to sunlight shining on his face. He’s still tied to the chair, his hands numb. Geralt is asleep in the bed next to him, sleeping on top of the sheets and his face has the tense look he gets when sleep sneaks up on him.

Jaskier coughs quietly, his throat parched.

Geralt’s eyes open and dart straight to Jaskier. He rolls upright and pulls a knife. Jaskier flinches for a moment as Geralt leans over him and then the ropes binding his hands are being cut.

Blood rushes back into his fingers painfully. Jaskier hisses and his shoulders pop as he gingerly rests his hands in his lap.

Geralt crouches in front of him, taking one arm in his large hands. He gently massages sensation back into Jaskier’s arms.

“Is it over, then?” Jaskier asks. It feels like it's over. His body is cool again.

“Do you still want me?” Geralt asks.

“I always want you, Geralt,” Jaskier says. Jaskier closes his eyes against Geralt’s response. He’s so tired of keeping that secret, and he’d already spilled all his desires to Geralt last night while doped up on succubus blood. Maybe Geralt will leave now, the way he leaves behind everyone else who admits their love of him.

“Thank fuck,” Geralt growls and what? That wasn’t what Jaskier was expecting. He opens his eyes to stare at Geralt, who is staring back at him with a single-minded focus. The muscles in his thighs tense and that’s all warning Jaskier gets.

Geralt surges up and Jaskier barely has a moment to squeak before he’s being tackled onto the bed. The firm mattress barely gives out under their weight and Jaskier makes a vow to do this all again somewhere nicer. Then Geralt’s mouth is on his and he’s not thinking anything at all.

Geralt kisses just like Jaskier dreamed he would, sharp and wicked. He bites at Jaskier’s lower lip, then down Jaskier’s neck. His stumble and lips leave red marks across Jaskier’s thin, pale skin. Jaskier can’t help the jerk of his hips every time Geralt chooses a new spot and sucks hard. Deft fingers undo his brocade jerkin, ripping it off his shoulders and flinging it somewhere across the room. Jaskier whines and yanks at Geralt’s belt, the buckle system too confusing while he’s being distracted by Geralt’s mouth.

The succubus blood has long since burned itself out in his bloodstream but his heart is racing anyway.

“Geralt,” he moans. Geralt curses and takes pity on him, ripping himself away to deal with his belts. He takes care of his shirts and boots and pants while he’s at it. Jaskier gets a depressingly short moment to stare before Geralt’s back on top of him and all that muscle is offered up for his touch.

Geralt’s back tells the story of his life. Jaskier’s fingers run over shifting muscles and bumpy scars. Geralt slides further down his body and beings unlacing his pants. Jaskier’s hands move from Geralt’s back to tangle in his long hair.

Jaskier’s skin is fully bared to the cold air of their room and Geralt rolls them closer to the center of the bed. He hovers over Jaskier like the warmest blanket. Jaskier leans up and kisses him again, gently. He can’t help how he’s looking up at Geralt. Geralt stares back at him, a slightly lost expression on his face like he’s been given a precious gift and has no idea what to do with it.

His hand comes up to cup Jaskier’s jaw as his head descends, pushing Jaskier into the bed. Jaskier’s limbs are heavy from exhaustion but he finds the strength to wrap his arms around Geralt’s neck. He wraps his legs around him too for good measure.

Geralt growls as their bodies come together. The new angle has his cock dragging across Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier is achingly hard from the feeling. Geralt’s calloused hands slide down Jaskier’s sides to grip his ass. The sensation jolts through Jaskier’s body and he jerks in Geralt’s arms. Geralt hums thoughtfully.

Using his grip on Jaskier, Geralt adjusts the angle of his hips and now their cocks are sliding against each other. Jaskier moans into Geralt’s mouth.

He’s seen Geralt’s cock before, of course, during all of Geralt’s baths. The first time he’d seen it Jaskier’s eyes had nearly bulged out of his head. Geralt’s eyes weren’t the only monstrous thing about him. Geralt pulls back a little bit to move one hand to wrap around their cocks.

Jaskier makes an embarrassing noise and Geralt chuckles.

The drag off Geralt’s callouses on his cock is good but it starts to hurt after one too many strokes. Jaskier whines.

Geralt reaches blindly for his belts, unwilling to stop kissing Jaskier. Jaskier has to push at his shoulders before Geralt will turn and lean off the bed to get a vial full of some witcher concoction. Geralt is back in his arms in an instant.

Jaskier sinks his fingers into Geralt’s hair while Geralt pours some of the vial’s contents into his hand.

A hot, slick hand wraps around Jaskier’s cock and he has to rip himself away from Geralt’s mouth to gasp. Whatever Geralt is using as lube tingles on his skin. Geralt hides a smirk in the curve of Jaskier’s neck.

He’s so close to coming but he wants so much more.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier pants. “Get inside me.”

Geralt pulls back to look at him. Jaskier must be hideously red in the face right now, and he’s breathing too fast to be sexy but Geralt certainly likes what he sees. His cock twitches against Jaskier’s.

Geralt sits back on his heels and Jaskier mourns the loss of his warmth. Then Geralt is wrapping his hands around Jaskier’s hips and manhandling him further up the bed. Jaskier’s breath catches at how easily Geralt tosses him around.

Then Geralt is sliding down Jaskier’s body, his hot breath ghosting over Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier is so distracted he barely notices the first finger sinking into him until it’s pressing against that sweet spot inside of him.

Jaskier’s whole body jerks.

Jaskier has fingered himself so many times but Geralt’s hands are bigger and when he presses in with two Jaskier’s body takes a while to adjust. Geralt makes a considering noise and swallows Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier shouts, back arching off the bed. Geralt takes the opportunity to scissor his fingers, working Jaskier open aggressively.

When he shoves a third finger into him, Jaskier sobs.

The stretch is so much more than he’s ever managed on his own, and it feels so damn good. The pressure is driving him crazy. Geralt begins slowly fucking him with his fingers, drawing them out before pressing back in and it's so close to what Jaskier wants, but not quite.

“Geralt,” he hisses. Geralt looks up at him, cat eyes bright. “Geralt!”

“What?” Geralt asks, pulling off Jaskier’s cock. He keeps his eyes on Jaskier as he licks a line up the vein on the underside of Jaskier’s cock.

“Geralt! Don’t tease me, just do it,” Jaskier says.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

This asshole. Jaskier spoke slowly. “Geralt, I want your cock inside of me. I want your cock inside of me now, I wanted it in me yesterday and a hundred yesterdays before that. I’ll want it in me tomorrow and always. Stop messing around and fuck me!”

Geralt stared at him, dazed.

“Now, Geralt!”

Geralt moved with witcher speed, so fast even Jaskier could barely track it. He wrapped his free arm under Jaskier’s body and dragged him down under Geralt, tossed Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, and used his fingers within Jaskier to hold him open as he slowly pressed in his cock.

Jaskier relaxes bonelessly into the bed, too busy focusing on the feel of Geralt’s cock to bother with anything else.

The press of it burns, even with all of Geralt’s time fingering him. Jaskier moans freely as that heat slides deep within him, bumping past his prostate and sinking even deeper.

Jaskier is distantly aware of the profanities spilling from his lips but he’s focused on the way Geralt leans over him, his brows furrowed in concentration as he holds himself back from thrusting wildly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says and this time that’s all Geralt needs to hear.

He starts up a slow, devastating roll of his hips that has Jaskier seeing stars.

Jaskier knew that Geralt would fuck like a dream but it's another thing to experience it. He’s half out of his mind with pleasure. He tries to push back into each thrust but with his legs over Geralt’s shoulders, he barely has any leverage. He ends up bumping Geralt’s back with his heels, trying to get him to speed up.

Geralt obliges. One of his hands moves to grip Jaskier’s hip and the other braces on his abs, big hands nearly spanning from hip bone to hip bone. He keeps Jaskier pinned down and builds up his speed until Jasker is sobbing again, tears leaking from his eyes as his fingers dig into Geralt’s scalp. Geralt hisses and presses into the touch.

The pleasure is so close that Jaskier is shaking uncontrollably. His leg slips off of Geralt’s shoulder and falls to his elbow. Geralt uses the opportunity to adjust the angle of their hips and then he’s nailing Jaskier’s sweet spot with every thrust.

The fire in Jaskier’s blood is scorching, burning him until he will never be the same again, forever changed by Geralt’s touch.

He runs his lips down the side of Geralt's neck, letting his fangs scrape along the delicate skin.

Geralt's hand comes up to cup the back of his head.

"Do it," Geralt says.

Sweet, hot blood spills across his tongue. He was right. Witcher blood really does taste better than anything else.

He comes harder than he’s ever come before, vision going while his whole body tenses. Distantly he hears Geralt curse and fall over the edge with him.

Jaskier can’t stop smiling.

He had resigned himself to a loveless life. He tumbled into the arms of a willing victim in every town they passed through but never stayed long enough to get to know anyone. Even with his increased control, he could be a danger if he stayed too long. Now though, he had Geralt to stop him from being a monster and Geralt to keep him sane and Geralt to love him.

He curls up tighter in his witcher’s arms, without a fear in the world.


End file.
